


Says the spider to the fly

by Chimerari



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chimerari/pseuds/Chimerari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story where Loki expects Clint to jump up on board with him, and rides off into his delusional sunset.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Says the spider to the fly

‘I’ve missed you.’

‘I’m here.’

Loki lets him brush those (lying, lying, lying) lips across his forehead, the corners of his mouth. A sweet gesture, reverent, almost.

No matter how long they lie tangled together, the bed never gets warm.

 

 

In the end, the Great War lasted just under a year. It was over before he even got here.

Turned out even the Avengers, the Earth’s mightiest heroes, could not have defended them against their own insanity.

There is always going to be war: between one belief and another, between the haves and the have-nots.

Not anymore.

He shall unite the races, the continents, give these hairless apes a new God.

Or so Clint tells him, repeatedly, murmuring those words into the back of his knuckles.

 

 

Loki found him among the rubbles that used to be New York City, cradling the Widow’s broken body in his arms. His eyes were dry but there were faint tracks running down his face, clean through the dust and grime.

Barton reached for his bow as soon as he spotted Loki, pointing the snapped end at Loki’s heart. There was a thin trail of blood leaking out of his nose, but his hands were perfectly steady.

A warrior’s hands.

Loki said the words, and caught an exhausted hawk in his arms.

He was so much lighter than he looked, than Loki remembered---bones hollowed by grief and arms drained from months of pointless battles.

 

 

Loki tries to build this strange planet to his liking. He pictures the golden halls of Asgard with their soaring arches, dusty plains the colour of crushed grapes, the sunsets---lavender and orange and salmon pink---colours so vivid they burn on the inside of his eyelids still.

Here, the land has been shuffled and re-assembled a few times already: oceans shrunk, mountains flattened, new cities emerged and old ones crumpled. The sky always looks ominously rain-soaked, even though there hasn’t been a drop of water for the last couple of months.

He tastes Jötunheimr in the biting wind, and shivers in disgust.

 

 

China is so much closer now that the North Pacific is out of the way.

It is also one of the few countries that can harvest electricity. And that, apparently, is reason enough for a visit, because.

‘You cannot sustain a planet by magic alone, sir,’ Clint says evenly. His tone betraying nothing, but Loki reads concern in the hazy depth of his eyes.

He sends Clint crushing into the opposite wall. The muffled bang of a body hitting concrete isn’t as satisfying as he hopes.

Loki’s had enough of people who claim to trust him, but ultimately fail to.

 

 

Shanghai is a decadent wreck. Half of it has sunk to the bottom of the East China Sea; the rest are clusters of wealthy islands, ruled by whoever has the biggest guns.

For the most part though, everyone is still having a good time.

They are served tea in fancy looking cups. The water(thrice-filtered) contains minimal radio-toxicity, not to mention zero calories. This is Shanghai after all, a vain city even in the worst of times.

The girl pouring the tea is mostly a collection of synthetic body parts, with a splash of human here and there. Her red curls gently sway in some non-existent breeze.

Loki could sense Clint’s eyes lingering on the hair, who clenches and unclenches his fists whenever she leans in to refill the cups.

 

 

They manage to secure the deal after a week of talking in circles. Their hosts are fond of words games, and Loki is nothing but a seasoned player.

He asks for the redhead before he leaves. A souvenir, if you may, smiling that particular smile of his.

The smile that used to get Thor to hand over his latest spoils.

He takes great pleasure in squeezing the mechanical spark out of her eyes. Clint doesn’t so much as twitch as he watches, the furrow between his brows an afterthought.

Loki kicks her aside, bored already.

 

 

It’s a novel feeling---creating, rather than destroying.

He never built Asgard, only fought for it, bled in its honour. Even while he was King, the ownership felt insubstantial. The realm was there long before he was born, and there it would remain, no matter whose head the crown sits upon.

Loki splits the survivors across the Capital, pooling the resources of more than a dozen ex-nations. Roads and factories begin to spring forth from the ashes.

He walks among the people, listens to the song of sweat sizzling on hot metal. Their faces and customs foreign to him still, words tumbling out of their mouths without grace. In their eyes shine a different light: not of suspicion, or fear, but a grudging respect. They look to him for guidance, when the war leaves so little behind and enemies are conveniently forgotten.

Lost little lambs.

He could learn to love this place, he muses. It’s not home, but where is?

 

 

He wakes to the familiar sensation of something sharp pressing too close.

Loki allows himself a long-suffering sigh before opening his eyes, squinting. Clint’s face swims into view, sweat beading along his temples.

‘Let, me, go.’

The blade nicks the skin on Loki’s neck. A threat, not a plea.

Not that any of the Avengers is good at begging.

‘Where will you go, then?’ Loki shows his teeth. ‘S.H.I.E.L.D is long gone. There isn’t even a US of A anymore.’

The metal against his throat twitches, slow at first, until it’s practically vibrating. Barton lets go of the hilt as if it burns. The noises caught in his throat barely sound human.

 

 

Loki fancies Barton a ghost, creeping close to tap on the window; and he the master of the house, watching those bony fingers rattling away, wanting out.

 

 

The first time happened back then.

It was just a thought, harmless enough, floating to the front of his mind as Hawkeye walked in, bloodied and triumphant.

Next thing Loki knew, the archer was standing toe to toe, yanking off a leather glove with his teeth, one hand loosening the zip on his suit.

Loki blinked. Up until then this newly acquired asset had demonstrated nothing but cool efficiency. This, however, this was something even the God of Mischief had failed to foresee.

Hawkeye didn’t stop until the last piece of clothing was on the floor. Feet falling in line with his shoulders, arms behind his back.

He was somewhat slight for all the muscles that broadened his chest, waist tapering down to strong thighs. Rough ridges of scars stood out against tanned skin; a very human flaw, and infinitely charming.

Loki touched a finger to the hollow of Hawkeye’s throat, pressing down lightly, equal parts amused and fascinated.

This body, this heart, this **soul** , all his for the taking.

Never let it be said that Loki doesn’t appreciate temptation.

Gripping one shoulder blade, he tugged Hawkeye closer, nosing up to the tender skin behind one ear.

‘If obedience is holiness.’ He pulled back slightly, thumb tucking under the other’s jaw to tilt his head up. ‘You’d have the halo of a saint.’

Hawkeye replied, completely without irony, ‘I strive to exceed expectations, sir.’

‘You do, don’t you?’ Loki skimmed a hand down the naked length of his back, stroking and pressing, finding all the places that made the mortal’s breath hitch.

‘Sir?’ the word was spoken with the barest tremor.

He allowed the unsubtle shifting against his thigh for two counts before stepping away.

‘Get dressed.’ Loki gripped the soft hair on the nape of his neck, pulling non-too-gently. ‘You offered, Hawkeye. So I think I’d keep you like this for a while.’ He chuckled, lips ghosting over the rapid tap tap tap beneath flushed skin. ‘Desperate, and wanting.’

 

 

He felt Thor go---a curious sensation as if he’s missed a step walking down the stairs.

And he knew, he knew. Fingers grasping thin air as he curled in on himself.

Three days later, his cage collapsed; The Allfather sank into oblivion in the wake of his heir’s demise.

 

The new roads bring many things: supplies from faraway colonies, traders, workers, and opportunists.

Every beggar wants to be king.

The mind of humans---oh how should he put it---too soon made glad, too easily impressed. It’s a great pastime: an extravagant praise here, a whispered promise there, and watch his opponents lose their bearing.

Clint, on the other hand, is all for the softly softly approach.

Loki doesn’t mind him climbing into their bed with blood dripping off his hair, not at all.

Odin talked about how the Gods were worshipped in the old days. The smell of incense that rose to the high heavens, the roaring litanies a lullaby to their ears. Loki looks at the red fingerprints Clint leaves on his skin, and thinks this can’t be too far off.

 

 

He tells Clint about Asgard, about his first hunt, chasing after Thor. The headaches they caused their mother (Thor’s, he realizes with a jolt, never his, but it’s too late to correct the slip). Holding a tiny flame in his hands, and the look on Thor’s face when he tried to touch it. The memories bubble up, unbidden, in the hours before another grey dawn.

Clint listens. The murkiness in his eyes could easily be mistaken for warmth.

 

 

Except, he isn’t the only one who remembers at night.

Clint gets so bad at times he wakes up screaming. The guards often have to bust in and bodily drag Clint into the safe room, where the walls are cushioned.

Other times Loki throws him in there himself, tells him to remember, Barton, that’s all you want, isn’t it? So bloody well _remember_.

The safe room is where they have their best (and worst) conversations.

 

 

By the time the Second Rebellion has been quelled, the Capital is practically sleepless. New machines blast out electric music day and night. The sky starts to turn a reluctant blue.

He steps onto the podium, beaming down on the sea of upturned faces, and calls them his.

The crowd answers with a deafening, heartfelt cheer.

At night, he pins Clint down with his body and bites bruises up his neck.

He doesn’t realize what he’s murmuring until Clint runs a gentle hand through his hair, agreeing.

‘I’m not…’ He throws his head back, fingers tightening around Loki’s bicep. ‘Whatever it is you don’t, god---don’t want me to be.’

Good thing one of them has a clear objective.

 

 

Barton used to fight. Even when the room was cleared of sharps, he had to be shackled down to the floor, or Loki might lose an eye.

Nowadays he rarely struggles against the bounds.

He and the Widow were stationed in Siberia when the first explosion hit. They crawled back home with no intel, no safe houses, hot-wiring whatever vehicle they could find.

Shoulda stayed, Barton exhales, let the world go to hell.

Barton can be terribly protective, but he’s never the patriotic sort.

He still vows to kill Loki when he’s free, even though his grin has long lost that maniac edge.

Then what? Loki leans against the wall, casual like.

Say you stick a blade through my black little heart, then what? Thousands will die quarrelling for my place.

Barton, predictably, has no answer for that.

Heroes really aren’t the brightest bunch.

 

 

I should have taken her too. Loki tests the Widow’s name on his tongue.

Your Tasha. I’ll even let you watch. Put on such a show you don’t know which one of us you’re more jealous of.

Barton dislocates his own wrist trying to lash out.

For that, Loki doesn’t call Clint to the surface for a week.

 

 

Clint, of course, only remembers Loki. Remembers fighting for him, standing beside him at the dawn of this new world, loving him, even. His body a shield his mind an arrow.

Loki wonders which one he should be more wary of: the one who can’t forget, or the one who does.

 

 

Together they climb the highest tower until they reach the very top, overlooking millions of lights lying below, dazzling enough to rival Asgard’s night-time sky.

Clint is giddy, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

‘This is yours, sir.’ Clint gestures towards the scenery, bowing his head. ‘All of this. You made it happen.’

His misty eyes are filled to the brim with such awe, such adoration, he so much as blinks and it will spill over.

For one breathless moment, Loki considers ordering him to jump. Let this mirage shutter forever.

Clint holds his gaze, fearless.

 

 

‘I saved you, didn’t I? When no one else would, no one else **could**.’ He spits the words out, proud, vindictive, mocking.

‘No.’ Barton laughs, a grating sound, eyes already clouding over into luminescent blue. ‘No, it wasn’t me you saved.’

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Sarsel, who helped me to find the characters' voices  
> [Tumblr me folks](http://rosengris.tumblr.com/)


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